


In Bloom

by Verkaiking



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Outlaw Queen - Freeform, lovefromoq
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2019-03-18 16:12:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13685178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verkaiking/pseuds/Verkaiking
Summary: To Miles. Happy Valentine's Day from your Secret Admirer!





	In Bloom

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FraiseDandelion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FraiseDandelion/gifts).



The first time he’d shown up, it was a Saturday.

Her door had been open as she waited for a delivery, and he’d walked in with his adorable son and purchased a dozen white roses. He’d looked so handsome holding that bouquet, that she hadn’t had the strength to turn him away for stepping into her shop a good fifteen minutes too early. He’d been polite, and sweet, and tall and gorgeous, so what if he’d walked in before opening time? She certainly wasn’t complaining.

He’s been coming in every Saturday since, and Regina hasn’t bothered to tell him that the place doesn’t open until 8:30. Instead, she’s taken to standing behind her counter with a smile as the bell rings at 8:15 and announces his arrival.

It’s stupid, silly, something that the great voices of feminism would frown upon, surely, what with altering her whole routine for a man and all, but she can’t help it. She loves having him here, even if it’s only for the five to ten minutes it takes him and his beautiful boy to choose a set of blooms, pay, and walk out her door with dimpled grins.

They are the highlight of her week, a bright spot in her otherwise quite lonely existence, so she will gladly sacrifice some twenty-odd minutes of sleep on Saturdays if it means she gets to partake in their morning routine.

And speaking of, here they come now, Roland bouncing happily through the door and greeting her with an excited “Hi, Regina!” as he waves and then dashes off to look at her wares.

His father lingers just by the counter for a bit, giving her a lower, much sweeter, “Good morning, Regina.”

She lives for that greeting, for that British accent wrapping so beautifully around her name, and it’s ridiculous, yes, pathetic, even, but she hasn’t been with anyone in over a year, and Robin is by far the most caring, good-looking man she’s set eyes on in a very long time.

But he’s married. Or at the very least, committed to someone else. He wears no ring, but Regina knows there’s someone in the picture. In the two months they’ve been her clients, she has often heard Roland asking Robin whether mommy will like whatever flowers he’s picked (Robin always assures the boy that yes, of course she will, because it’s their gift to her). And how lucky this woman is, Regina thinks, to have a family who loves her this much, who makes it a point to get her beautiful fresh flowers every week.

They always go for her purest blooms, the ones that have just been unloaded from the delivery truck; full of color and dotted in dewdrops that somehow accentuate their loveliness. Today’s pick of the crop: daisies. Her freshest ones, crisp white petals contrasting beautifully against the soft, butter yellow center.

“What’s it mean, Regina?! What’s it mean?!” Roland asks excitedly, and this right here, this is her favorite part of their weekly visits, the way that little boy just lights up when she tells him the meaning of whatever flower he’s chosen for the day.

“Daisies symbolize happiness,” she starts, running a finger over the silky petals. “They’re special flowers for people who are good and never do naughty things. Like you!”

It’s as simplified an explanation as she can give him. In more adult terms, daisies speak of loyalty, of innocence and purity. But those are philosophical concepts that are a bit hard to relate to a five-year-old.

Still, the daisies are a great choice, and she tells them so, smiling when Roland puffs up his chest proudly, and then Regina is deftly wrapping their purchase in brown paper and fiddling with the register, their interaction about to come to an end. She takes Robin’s credit card with a flourish, feeling proud of herself when those dimples of his deepen as he watches her.

Their visit is longer than usual this time around, with Roland off taking a leisurely walk along her ornamental cabbages corner and Robin asking her about her week, adding commentary about his own (and he’s charming, so charming, flashing her that grin and sinking his teeth into it), and Regina _likes_ it, enjoys the way he seems genuinely interested in what she has to say. She likes that he listens, that he pays attention, likes how he commiserates with her when she tells him about that chrysanthemum arrangement that went wrong on Tuesday, and how he widens his eyes and promises to try that chocolate croissant from the bakery down the block after she gushes over how good it is...

She’s waving them goodbye at 8:30 on the dot, her morning off to the best of starts, when her parade is completely and thoroughly rained on by the clacking of too-expensive heels and the wafting scent of tacky, overpriced perfume.

Regina groans, cursing the day she agreed to do business with such an insufferable human being.

Zelena Greene. An undesirable client, if there’s ever been one. The term “bridezilla” doesn’t even begin to cover just how much of a nightmare this woman is. She’s getting married tomorrow, to an equally annoying fiancé that just so happens to walk in right behind her, his smug rat face doing him no favors, and they both huff and stand there, looking at her.

Regina sighs, running her hands down her front, smoothing her red apron unnecessarily. A lock of hair has fallen from her ponytail, so she tucks it behind her ear, trying her very best to sound casual (because sounding _cheerful_ isn’t really an option with these two sucking the positive energy from the room) when she greets, “Zelena, Vince, what can I do for you?”

They sneer at her, and then Zelena takes on that snide, passive-aggressive tone when she responds with “Regina, dear! I was in the neighborhood and decided to stop by so we could have a chat. You see, there seems to be a misunderstanding in the color we agreed on for our flowers.”

Oh, no. They’d gone over every color of hydrangeas she could provide, discussed with the supplier time and again what options were available this time of year, and debated the many different combinations of them with the ivory roses in the centerpieces before finally settling on a color. Somehow, the idea that she may have ordered the wrong ones startles her, because yes, after all that back and forth, she most certainly could have.

“I thought we settled on periwinkle?” she asks cautiously. And then the other shoe drops.

“We did,” Zelena says slowly, taking out her phone and searching for something in it as she adds, “So imagine my surprise when I walked into the venue earlier and found this!”

She all but shoves the phone in her face, and Regina takes it, setting eyes on the screen and scrolling through photo after photo of the big, sphere-shaped bursts of blooms, fresh and bright and beautiful, all displaying different shades of the dusty, purple-y blue they’d settled on.

“I don’t understand,” Regina admits, “what seems to be the problem?”

Zelena huffs, her anger showing as she responds, “The problem, Regina, is that I paid for a specific color and got another.”

Regina darts her hand under the counter, searching for the receipt she’s been keeping on the far end. The title “Greene-Hades Wedding” is scribbled at the top in her own loopy writing, the printed page showing credit card details, delivery preferences, address information, and the words “Periwinkle mix” under the “Color” option.

“You asked for periwinkle mix, that’s periwinkle mix. They are fresh, and naturally grown, and cut in their prime, just as you asked, I don’t see anything wrong with them.”

Zelena’s too-light eyes widen, her fiery red hair bouncing when she snatches her phone back from Regina’s hand and says, “It may be imperceptible to your uneducated eye, but that is not periwinkle, that is lavender. I want my money back.”

Regina snorts.

And fine, she’ll admit that that was rude, so when Vincent’s nostrils flare in annoyance, she hurries to apologize. “I’m sorry,” she tries, “but I don’t do returns, we discussed that the first day you showed up here.”

“And that would apply if the issue was on my end, but it is not. I paid for periwinkle hydrangeas, I did not get periwinkle hydrangeas, therefore, I should be refunded, especially if I’m going to be forced to marry the love of my life surrounded by such a heinous color.”

“That is the color you ordered.”

“It is not!” Zelena snaps, banging her hand on the counter. Regina winces. She hates loud noises, they shake her.

“Miss Greene,” she tries, hoping formality will deter the woman from causing a scene even if the store is empty at the moment. “I personally spoke to my supplier about these. They are the same color and type as the samples you saw. I know it’s a stressful thing to plan a wedding, but you may be seeing too much into—”

“Oh now I’m delusional, is it?!” the woman responds, banging her fist on the counter again. “I cannot believe this!” She whines, getting progressively worse in her spoiled-bratty sobs as she rants. “First, they put cream pearls instead of rose pearls on my dress, which completely throws off the color of the emeralds I’m wearing, then the stupid caterer adds one extra chicken meal to the menu _that shouldn’t be there_ ; my spin instructor is bailing last minute because apparently giving birth is more important than my _wedding_ , then the weather forecast decides to project rain for tomorrow instead of the light drizzle it promised last month, so when my guests look out the window of the venue everything will be wet and horrible, and now _you_ have the audacity to tell me that _I’m_ to blame for my flowers being the wrong color, after I specifically requested periwinkle?!”

She’s lost her breath, her voice getting shrieky and raspy towards the last bits of her tirade, a big gulp of air following her last word before she turns and sobs into her husband-to-be’s shoulder.

And Regina would laugh at the absurdity of the bride’s statements if the groom wasn’t scaring the hell out of her right now.

He’s comforting his fiancée with absent pats on the back, but he’s staring right at Regina above Zelena’s head, licking his lips and looking at her like he’s won already, like he thinks he can control and do whatever he wants with her or any woman who denies him what he’s after. Regina hates that look, had escaped a stepfather who would always give her _that_ look. She won’t stand for it. She won’t.

But she can feel her body trembling, cowering as she tries to make peace and explain yet again why there can’t be a refund, but Vince is speaking now, abandoning his bride and walking towards Regina, the counter the only thing that stands between them as he sneers, his tone low and menacing when he tells her, “No, you listen, you little liar. We will not be taken by fools. Zelly was very clear in her order and you sought to destroy the happiest day of our lives by giving her the wrong flowers. You will give us the money back now, or you’ll be sorry.”

“Are you threatening me?!” Regina starts, having found some of her bravado once again, but before Vince or Zelena can reply, an angry voice breaks through the argument, and Regina turns, embarrassed, to find Robin there, Roland standing just a couple of steps behind, still holding his daisies.

“Don’t you dare lay a finger on her,” Robin is growling, and it’s only then that Regina realizes Vince’s hand is somewhat raised, like it had been preparing to grab her and shake her to drive his point home before they were interrupted.

He seems to calculate his chances and decide they aren’t good, because that hand lowers then, and he withdraws from Regina (she hadn’t noticed just how in her face he’d gotten until now), turning to look at Robin and ask, “And just who might you be?”

“None of your business. Now, I think it’s best if you leave.” Robin’s voice is low, gravelly. Scary.

“She was paid for a service, she did not provide that service, we’re merely seeking what is rightfully ours,” Vince says as matter-of-factly as he can in the heated exchange.

“The only thing rightfully yours will be the black eye you’ll show in every wedding photo if you don’t get out of here now and stop harassing the lady,” Robin seethes back, clenching his fists at his sides.

Zelena has gathered her senses, looks between Robin and Regina for a moment before she says, “I guess the ugly hydrangeas will do, but I will _not_ be doing business with you again” and turns her nose up at both of them, heading for the door and dragging a very annoyed Vince by the arm with her. Those spiky heels carry her right out the door, and she slams it shut so hard that the _Enchanted Forest Flower & Garden Shop _ sign above it wobbles a bit, but thankfully doesn’t fall.

There’s a moment of silence, of tension, and then Roland yells “Yeah! And don’t come back!” as he walks to the window, sticking his tongue out at the retreating back of her two dissatisfied (abusive) customers, and that tension breaks. Regina laughs, looks down at the boy and thanks him.

“I’m sorry they scared you,” she adds then, because she remembers the image of Roland behind his father’s legs, daisies still clutched in hand (his grip had been so tight, the brown paper around the flowers is wrinkled now), staring at the adults in the room and looking somewhat apprehensive.

But, “I wasn’t scared,” he defends, puffing out his chest valiantly. “I just didn’t want them to be mean to you because you’re my friend.”

“And on that note...” Robin interrupts, calling his boy back to him and whispering in his ear. Regina can’t quite make out what it is, but Roland’s entire face lights up. He smiles, brighter than the sun, dimples deep and on full display as he deposits the daisies in his father’s hand before running back into the depths of the shop.

“Not that I’m not grateful for the interruption but... Why did you come back? Did you guys forget something?” she asks Robin, who is staring at her with this kind of dopey smile on his face she’s not sure she’s ever seen before.

“Roland was a little distracted with the flowers and accidentally almost bumped into that horrid woman. She was... well, not very accepting of his apology.”

 _That bitch_ , Regina thinks.

“When I saw her coming in here I figured you might need some help, is all,” he finishes with a shrug, and no, that’s not right.

“I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself, you know,” she insists, because she is, despite his assistance being so welcome in this particular instance.

“Doesn’t mean you should,” he counters, leaning in close; closer than he’s ever been to her. She can see the flecks of green scattered in the deep ocean blue of his eyes, the tones of honey and gray in his hair...

God, he’s gorgeous.

“You should go,” she tells him, because it’s dangerous to have him so close when he’s so handsome and kind and she so lonely. “Your wife will be wondering where you are.”

He opens his mouth to answer her, but Roland chooses that moment to pop up from her tropicals aisle and say, “Daddy, I’m close! I can feel it!”

“Are you looking for more flowers for your mommy?” she asks, adding, “I’m sure she’ll love the daisies you got her. She’s probably at home waiting for them right now, and she’ll be so excited when you give them to her!”

The boy giggles, shakes his head at her like she’s just said the silliest thing in the world, and then stops by her display of multi-colored gladiolus as he casually explains, “Mommy’s not at home, she’s at the cemetery.”

Oh.

Ooohhh.

“She’s...” she mumbles, and Roland has already skipped away, going further into her perennials aisle, but his father is still looking at her expectantly, garnering her reaction to the news. “I didn’t know,” she settles on, “I’m sorry.”

Robin’s hand is warm and reassuring atop hers as he insists, “It’s quite alright.”

“When?” she asks, still a bit shocked by the revelation.

“Five years this coming spring,” Robin answers with a sad smile, adding, “Car accident on her way home from work. Roland was eight months old.”

“I’m so sorry. That can’t have been easy,” she tells him, swallowing and looking into his eyes. There’s something in the way he looks at her, some undefined quality she hadn’t seen there before, not quite pain but... the ghost of it, maybe.

“I would’ve walked through hell to be with my Marian again,” he admits, “but... when I finally admitted to myself that she was gone, and that she was never coming back, I had to let her go, I had to focus on our son. To give him the life she would have wanted for him.”

He goes quiet then, and she doesn’t press for more. Instead, she tells him honestly, “You’re doing a great job, Roland is wonderful.”

“He is, isn’t he?” Robin says, and she can hear the pride in his voice, see the sparkle of joy in his eye as he looks at the aisle Roland’s disappeared to. “Though that’s more his own credit than mine,” he adds with a chuckle.

“Let’s call it teamwork,” Regina compromises, and Robin nods, thanks her for the kind words.

And then, to her complete surprise, he bares his soul to her.

“He, uh... he wanted to know more about his mother,” he starts. “He’s always loved our garden. Marian planted it, you see, but I’ve kept it going since her passing, we pick herbs to use in the kitchen when I cook for him, sometimes even tomatoes if they’re ripe enough, and he loves it. One day I was driving by here and had this idea, figured getting flowers and visiting Marian’s resting place might be something he’d like to do, and he was so happy. Then the week after he wanted to do it again, and again, until it turned into this... routine of sorts.”

“So you became regulars,” she remarks.

He nods in acquiescence, continues his story with “And I like that he has that now, I don’t ever want it to stop, he loves sitting there and telling his mum all about his life, but it’s a ritual of sorts. This bit, the fun of coming here and picking the flowers, seeing _you_ , that’s his favorite part of the week.”

“Is it?” she’s touched by the notion, so glad to know she’s made that adorable little boy happy.

“It’s my favorite part, too,” Robin confesses then, and Regina feels a traitorous blush color her cheeks as she looks down at the smooth, black marble of her countertop. She’s very fond of this counter, of the way it wraps in a half circle around the wall and overlooks the entirety of the shop, of the grayish blue mosaic finish and the off-white dandelion silhouette etched on the tile...

It's the single most unique piece in the venue, a hint of sophistication amidst the fresh, sweet, colorful chaos of the flowers surrounding her. And right now it’s what’s keeping her from floating away like some dumb cliché after hearing Robin’s words.

That stubborn lock is in her face again, and she reaches to push it back, noticing the way he follows the movement with his gaze. There’s a bit of a nervous chuckle from her, and then silence as she mulls over everything he’s just said.

“If they bother you again, especially him,” he says then, jerking his chin toward the door and circling the subject back to the events from earlier, “point ‘im to me, I’d be happy to have more than a conversation.”

Regina laughs then, her shyness dissipating; tells him, “Oh, I’m sure I’ve seen the last of them, but you really shouldn’t have worried, I get clients like that all the time.”

“No one deserves to be treated like that.” He sounds so sincere, and there’s that smile again, weakening her at the knees.

“It’s fine,” Regina insists, shaking it all off with a casual wave of her hand. “Brides just get a bit frazzled about their special day. I can handle it. The scary boyfriend, though, that was a first.”

“I didn’t like the way he was looking at you. Like he _craved_ to hurt you.”

“Hm,” is all Regina says, because she’s a bit taken aback in the moment, shaken still by her altercation with Vince and now Robin’s show of concern.

Still, she tries to laugh it off, telling him, “Don’t worry, usually the men that come in here aren’t looking to rough up the owner. Mostly they just want the perfect bouquet to ask forgiveness for one bad decision or another.”

He chuckles at that. Good.

“Mostly, but not always?” he prods.

She shakes her head. “There’s the odd duck here and there. Like Kilian, this Irish guy who comes in here once every two weeks like clockwork, because he knows that’s when my lilies arrive and he wants to pick the best ones for his boyfriend, David. Just because.”

“Good man,” Robin commends, leaning onto the counter (he’s close, so close) and grinning devilishly as he asks, “Who else?”

“Peter,” Regina continues after pondering her answer. “He’s been a steady client for a couple of years now. His girlfriend Ruby is a decorator, so she likes playing around and creating new arrangements. Once a month, he pays me whatever fee I set and Ruby comes over and gets free reign of the store; she makes a new, gorgeous bouquet for her grandmother out of whatever flowers she chooses and then takes me out for tacos and margaritas to celebrate her new creation.”

“She sounds spritely,” he remarks, and Regina chuckles, tells him that’s a bit of an understatement. She loves Ruby, they’ve become good friends in the time she and Peter have been her clients. Regina likes having them here, even if the store ends up covered in petals and leaves when Ruby’s done with her bouquet.

“Anyone else?” he asks then, wiggling his eyebrows and grinning at her. And fine, she’ll give him what he wants, because who is she kidding, really?

“Well, there’s this guy,” she starts, not sure whether she’s intentionally flirting or not (yes, yes she is). “He and his son are my most frequent visitors. And my best customers.”

“Are they, now?” he asks, seeming quite interested, and god, that grin, the way he looks at her all devious and perfect. Resisting is too much work.

So she nods, _Mmhm_ s for good measure, and calls back to his earlier words by admitting, “My favorite part of the week.”

“Daddy, I found it!” Roland’s voice interrupts, and she doesn’t notice just quite how close she and Robin are to one another until they jump apart at the boy’s delighted announcement.

When her eyes find him, he’s smiling enthusiastically, holding a bouquet of bright yellow dandelion flowers in his hands.

“I see you’ve paid a visit to my medicinals,” she remarks with a laugh, taking Robin’s card and swiping in the new purchase.

“It’s medicine? That’s boring. I thought it had a cool meaning,” he protests.

“Oh, but it does,” Regina tells him, smiling and explaining, “Dandelions are healers—”

“They don’t look like dandelions, dandelions are white and fluffy,” the boy cuts in, and Robin softly chides him for interrupting, but Regina waves it off.

“This is what they look like _before_ they turn white and fluffy,” she explains. “After a while, this flower closes back up...” she extends her palm, then closes it in a point, so that her hand looks like a bulb rather than a fist, and then slowly lets it fall open again as she adds, “...and then it reopens with all those white fuzzy seeds you can blow on.”

“Really?” he asks, interested. Regina nods, and then distaste is visible on his face again when he rebutts, “But you said they’re medicine. I don’t like medicine.”

“They are, and they’re very special. If you put the roots and leaves in hot water you can make a tea that helps you feel better when you have a tummy ache, and yellow is a cheerful color—”

“Oooh, because it’s like the sun? That’s why I chose it,” he cuts in again, and Regina nods as she hands Robin his receipt, feeling proud that the boy remembers his lesson on sunflowers from a couple of weeks ago.

“Exactly,” she continues. “So the flower helps people feel better after they’ve had a bad day, because it reminds them of the sun. And when they transform, you can make a wish and blow on them so your wish can come true! I’m sure your mommy will love them.”

He laughs then, shakes his head knowingly, like he’s about to reveal the best secret in the world, and tells her “No, silly, they are for you!” as he places the flowers on the counter before her.

What?

“For... for me?” Regina asks, baffled, and turns to stare at Robin, confused.

He smiles at her, with those dimples and that devilish stare and that alluring je ne sais quoi that makes her tingle all over, and he elaborates, “Figured you deserved some cheering up after your run-in with that wicked witch.”

“Robin, this is... You didn’t have to...” she stammers.

“A simple thank you would suffice,” he quips, winking at her, and then Roland chimes in.

“Daddy said I had to find the happiest flowers for you and then you wouldn’t be sad about that mean lady! Are you happy now?!” Regina hears the child say, but she’s still staring dumbly at his father, her mouth half open in surprise.

“Thank you,” she finally says, and then allows herself to accept their gift. She loves wildflowers, loves the rustic feel of them, the air of freedom they carry.

Still, it feels like it’s too much, like she shouldn’t be keeping them, if for no other reason than the fact that this alters the father-son routine Robin has just told her he loves so much.

So she picks one flower from the lot, places her hand under its receptacle, stem nestled between middle and ring finger, and pulls up gently, extricating the bloom from its siblings and  breaking off part of the stem before she tucks it behind her ear.

“How about I keep this one,” she tells Roland, avoiding all eye contact with Robin as she adds, “and you take the rest to your mommy? I want to share them with her.”

Roland thinks for a few seconds, but seems to decide he’s happy with the arrangement because then he’s nodding vigorously, grabbing the flowers from the counter and smacking them against the daisies Robin is still holding as he commands, “Daddy, Regina is gonna send her flowers to Mommy, we can’t lose them.”

“I’ll do my very best to keep a good eye on them,” his father informs, chancing a glance at Regina, one that she returns with a shy smile as she fiddles with her apron.

“I’ll see you next Saturday?” he asks her then, and Roland snorts, reminds them both that _We see her every Saturday, Daddy,_ but Robin is still looking at her, still grinning at her.

“See you Saturday,” Regina replies, smiling at them both.

And then, instead of turning and going on their way, Robin takes another dandelion flower from the cluster in his hand and offers it to her.

“Have a great weekend, Regina,” he says as she takes it, and then he finally leaves, taking Roland’s hand and walking out of the shop while he looks down at his son and laughs at his incessant chatter.

Regina is left staring at that bright yellow bloom and smiling, wishing it wouldn’t take another week before she sees them again.

* * *

* * *

She’s become an integral part of their routine, her smile lighting up their Saturday mornings, making Robin’s heart feel lighter than it has in years. She’s sweet, and smart, and funny, and unbelievably gorgeous, with those dark eyes that ignite some kind of fire in him every time they look his way, those lips she often keeps coated in red, begging to be kissed; those loose waves he itches to run his fingers through... She’s stunning, in every way, and over the course of his visits to her shop, Robin has become quite smitten with her, with her wit and her charm and the gentle, loving way in which she treats his son and teaches him about her trade.

It’s one of those mornings, the third one since that dandelion, and something has changed between them, shifted from platonic friendship to something more. Her stare lingers, her teeth biting down into a smile that seems somehow deeper now, flirtier, and Robin would be lying if he said it wasn’t a welcome change.

He wants her. Is drawn to her in ways he hasn’t been drawn to anyone since Marian (and even then, a tiny voice shamefully admits in his head, it hadn’t been as intense as it is now). When it began, he’d chucked it up to years of solitude, of neglecting his personal life in favor raising a child, but he’d been fooling himself. It’s her. Regina. It’s the way everything in her calls to him, attracts him deeply and makes him want more.

They’ve been giving her a new flower (well, two, one for her hair and one to keep on the tiny, single-flower vase by the register) on their every visit together since that fateful day with the dandelion. When they’d returned the week after, he’d purchased two purple tulips (on top of a bouquet of peonies for Marian) and placed them on the counter, to add to her collection, he’d told her. She never did say what the meaning of tulips is, now that he thinks of it, but her smile had warmed up his entire world, and he and Roland had walked out feeling quite satisfied with their choice.

They’d picked carnations for her last week. Berry red petals with a dusting of white at the tips. She’d laughed, a melodious, full-bodied thing, and he’d been so keen on finding out the reason for her amusement that he’d sent Roland to inspect the new shipment of roses a group of chortling older men had been unloading by the entryway. _What’s so funny?_ Robin had asked, and Regina had answered him with another giggle, and then told him that carnations are usually funeral flowers.

“Oh, that’s... dire. I should’ve let Roland get the daffodils,” he’d said with a sheepish smile, but Regina had shaken her head, waving off his uncertainty and telling him _No, no, it’s lovely, thank you._ He’d remained skeptical, though, and she must’ve noticed it, because she’d then given his hand a reassuring squeeze over the marble separating them and added, _Besides, red carnations also mean admiration. I like feeling admired._ God, he’d wanted to just spread her over that counter and _admire_ every inch of her then.

He’s taken to calling her during his lunch breaks at work (and his fellow professors have noticed he no longer joins them for a meal, but he can’t help it, he doesn’t want to stop talking to her); at first he’d been calling the shop, just to say hello, to ask how her day was going, and make sure that horrible couple wasn’t bothering her. And then one day she’d simply given him her personal number, and they’ve been exchanging silly, flirty texts ever since.

Whenever he visits Enchanted Forest after work (and he’s taken to doing that at least twice a week now on top of their Saturday staple), they share seductive stares, trade enticing comments disguised as banter as she closes up shop for the day, even go as far as holding hands when he walks her to her car, his thumb rubbing gently over her glove as they chat about life, family, the different things that make them who they are. And then he goes home and Belle, who has been practically part of his family since Roland was one, mocks him for being a lovesick fool, demanding that he ask Regina out already.

And today, as he watches Regina lovingly take the two Asian buttercups Roland has chosen for her, Robin decides his babysitter may have a point.

“Daddy, there’s new cactuses!” Roland announces excitedly, running to the little display on the other end of the shop and forgetting all about Regina’s present and the Peruvian lilies they’ve picked for Marian, which now rest idle on the counter.

“Cacti,” Robin corrects, then warns, “Now, remember what you’ve been taught, son,” while Regina cuts off part of the stem from one of her two new blooms.

“Look, don’t touch,” his boy recites serenely, making both adults smile as they look away from him and get lost in each other for a few stolen moments.

“You really don’t have to buy something for me every time you come in here,” she starts, still looking down at the bright orange ranunculi in her hand.

“We like doing it,” Robin defends, taking the one with the shortened stem and tucking it gently behind her ear, sighing in his appraisal of the orange bloom as it sits delicately against her dark tresses, his thumb lingering on her cheek as he insists, “I quite enjoy bringing out that elusive but satisfying smile of yours, you know.”

Said smile appears then, framed by that gorgeous red lipstick he’s found himself thinking of even during in his lectures, often trailing off mid-speech because the thought of kissing her overpowers every other idea in his head.

“How was your week?” she asks him then, smiling down at the one flower she’s holding.

“Long,” he says truthfully, because he hasn’t been able to drop by all week, and he has _missed_ her.

“Mine, too,” she agrees, looking up at him from under her lashes before her gaze settles back down on the petals.

“What is it? Don’t tell me we’ve chosen another funeral flower,” he jokes, delighting in her answering chuckle.

“No,” she assures him, “this one means radiance. Attraction.”

“Ah,” Robin understands then, smiling down at the flower and then up at Regina. “It appears we’ve chosen well, then. You’re definitely the most attractive woman in the room.”

There are only four or five customers in the shop, all of them male, so her retort is a sassy, “I’m the _only_ woman in the room, Robin.”

“Even if this place was overcrowded with women, you’d be the most radiant,” he counters. “You’re the most beautiful woman in all rooms, as far as I’m concerned.”

“Nice save,” she commends with a laugh, shaking her head in amusement. They fall into this kind of appreciative silence, eyes roaming each other as they smile like fools.

“What did the tulip mean?” he asks then, wanting to hear her voice again, and at her confused look, he adds, “The purple one from the other day. You never said.”

“Oh,” she whispers as it dawns on her, and then she looks a bit shy as she tells him, “Royalty.”

“Ah,” he says solemnly. “Well in that case, _Your Majesty_ ,” he starts, emphasizing the ridiculous (but quite deserving, if you ask him) title with a smirk and asking, “what flower should I present you with so you’ll agree to go to dinner with me?”

It shocks her, that question. He can see it in the way her eyes widen, in the way she stares at him like he’s grown three heads, then looks down at that orange bloom again and hesitates.

She’s nervous. Interested, clearly, but perhaps not ready.

“I’ve made a complete fool of myself, haven’t I?” Robin says then, saving her the embarrassment of having to explain. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have presumed—”

“No,” she stops him immediately. “No, I... I’d love to go to dinner with you.”

“Yeah?” he asks, needing to make sure he’s not imagining her answer, between his wishful thinking and how addled he is by her beauty.

“Yeah,” Regina confirms. “I’d like that.”

Roland comes to him then, barrels himself against Robin’s leg and tells him they have to go. “We’ve been here foreeeeeever. I’m hungry.”

Robin laughs at his impatient son, but ruffles his hair and accepts that “Yes, it’s late, we should be on our way.”

They say their goodbyes, and he leaves the shop with the image of her parting wink and flirty smile, his question unanswered.

* * *

_Gardenias._

The text arrives at exactly 10:13pm that night, after he’s been staring at his phone for a good ten minutes trying to figure out how to approach the subject again.

Robin feels a dopey grin spreading on his face as he looks at the word, at the _Regina Mills_ at the top of his screen, and then texts back.

_Interesting. I would’ve guessed something more along the lines of lillies or roses, Your Majesty._

He hopes the moniker makes her laugh, hopes it’ll get her to flirt back. And when she answers with another text, he knows he’s succeeded.

_Roses are for commoners. I’m a queen and a bit more refined._

He laughs at her banter (and he doesn’t know it yet, but years from now, he’ll look back on this as the moment he fell in love with her), answers her message on a more curious note.

_And how would gardenias get me a date with the queen?_

It takes her a while to answer, and when she finally does, he’s enthralled by the words.

_They’re simple, elegant. Their meaning is interpreted in different ways. Secret crushes, untold declarations of love, purity of emotion, conveying loveliness... quite the regal, romantic flower, if you ask me ;)_

Before he can answer, a second text appears under it, and it makes him smile.

_But more importantly, they’re my favorites._

He shows up at her shop on Monday morning with a whole bouquet of them, purchased elsewhere to keep them a surprise, and she’s touched by the gesture, takes the flowers in her hands and buries her nose in them. Roland is at home (Robin has left Belle in charge of getting him ready for daycare), and the shop is deserted this early in the morning, the silence cocooning Robin in this fragrant bubble with Regina as he delivers his gift. The sweet scent of the flowers permeates the room, and finally she steps out from behind the counter, its massive marble surface no longer an obstacle between them as she comes closer and whispers, “Thank you.”

“Will you go to dinner with me, Regina?” he asks in return, all traces of teasing gone, his eyes intent on hers as he awaits her answer.

“How does Friday sound?” she throws back at him, and he exhales his relief on a laugh. And then, because she’s close enough to touch and he can no longer bear the distance, he raises his hand and takes hers, running a tentative thumb over her knuckles as he tells her that _Friday sounds perfect._

He gives her another gardenia when he picks her up for their date. Loves the way she can’t help but lean into the flower and take in its sweet scent before she places it in the little ring that holds the strap of her bag. She’s wearing a thick gray coat to ward off the early February chill, so he actually doesn’t see her outfit until she sheds the heavy fabric once they reach the restaurant and are shown to their seats; he almost moans in front of their waiter.

She’s in a purple dress with some kind of asymmetrical neckline, the fabric clinging to her like a second skin and creating fantasies he probably shouldn’t be having on a first date.

“You look... absolutely incredible,” he says, and from the smug way in which she smiles, Robin can tell that she knows it.

“Thank you,” she says still, and those lips aren’t red today, but rather a dark berry shade that makes her even more tempting somehow.

They start off with wine and crusty bread, dipping strips of it in olive oil and herbs while they look over their meal options. In the end she goes for lasagna, while Robin opts for the gnocchi in brown butter and sage. They try bits of each other’s dishes, and laugh and joke and overall have quite the enjoyable evening, the sexual tension dissipating just enough to give way to that initial wave of excitement over new beginnings, as they finally start getting to know each other properly.

But towards the end of dinner, when she rises to go to the ladies’ room, she turns, and Robin groans out loud, his desire for her going from dormant ember to full inferno in the span of seconds.

“What?” she asks, looking at him over her shoulder.

“That dress has been doing things to me from the moment I laid eyes on it,” he explains, “and I just saw the back.” His eyes zero in once again on the two black straps that form a bow over her exposed back, like a little present just for him; the zipper runs down the length of her body, over the perfect curve of her rear and all the way to a teasing little slit he hadn’t noticed until now.

Regina smirks, looking quite pleased with herself as she walks away, and Robin could swear there’s more of a sway to her hips now, like she’s purposefully sashaying away just to entice him.

Mission accomplished.

He lusts after her for the full five minutes she’s gone, and when she returns, he roams his eyes unabashedly over her figure, catching the way she bites her lower lip and looks him up and down with the same hunger he can feel churning inside him.

The drive back is all charged silence and stolen glances, his hands jittering on the steering wheel because he can feel her eyes on him, feel the way she’s looking at him.

“See something you like?” he asks, not taking his eyes off the road (more to stop himself from attacking her lips with his own than for their safety, if he’s honest).

“Definitely,” she replies, her voice a sexy, raspy thing that makes his cock twitch.

They’re not having sex tonight. He knows that. Knows they need more than one date before they can get there, but god, he’s dying to kiss her. To hold her against him and let his hands wander over her mouthwatering silhouette.

But for all the pent up sexual tension, the actual kiss happens rather slowly. Her voice goes soft, a whisper in the chilly breeze as she tells him, “Thank you for tonight, I had a great time” when they reach her door.

“So did I,” he agrees. “You are... absolutely magnificent, Regina Mills.”

“You’re not so bad yourself, Robin Locksley,” she teases back, and they’ve gravitated closer to one another, her tongue peeking out to wet her lower lip just as Robin instinctively does the same, and then they’re leaning in so slowly, breathing each other in, feeling the air charged with the electricity of their connection, the tip of her nose caressing his as she moves it slightly up and down.

He doesn’t exactly know who finally seizes the moment and closes the gap between them, all he knows is that one minute he’s feeling the warmth of her breath on his cheek and the next her lips are on his, soft and full and perfect, a gentle press of them that grows into more, into various pecks that later open to something deeper.

Regina catches his bottom lip between hers and pulls, and the moan Robin lets out at the action is embarrassingly loud, but he doesn’t care, because it seems to only spur her on. His hands move up and down her sides, her back, coming to rest just above her rear and pulling her flush against him. He can feel her breasts pressed against his torso, feel the heat of her touch over his shoulders, then down his back and back up, where her fingers grip and pull at the hair on the nape of his neck just as his tongue peeks out to tease against her lower lip.

It’s she who moans this time, arms looping tight around his neck as she presses her body closer, her tongue licking at his, lips closing around it and sucking gently before they part for a split second, one that Robin takes full advantage of by nipping at her upper lip, then licking it to soothe when she yelps in surprise.

And then she lets out this low, raspy _Mmmh_ , and he’s gone.

He kisses her faster, harder, his tongue needy and wet against hers, her lips plump and sweet and delicious as they suck at his lower one, her hand settling on the side of his face, thumb rubbing at his cheek in an affectionate gesture that is completely at odds with the wild abandon with which they’re kissing now, all teeth and tongue and reckless lust.

Her mouth is quick, wet and glorious as she moves against him, tasting of wine and a hint of the sweet, spiked coffee from that tiramisu they had for dessert, an intoxicating combo that has him wondering what the rest of her would taste like.

His hand travels down her side until he can grasp her thigh, and he tries to bring it up over his hip, but her dress is too tight, and she whines in frustration, so instead he walks her backwards and against her front door, keeping her firmly nestled in the polished wood as he pulls back to take a breath and then moves his head down to the skin exposed by her dress.

He starts with little sucks along her neck, teasing along her collar and up to her pulse point, relishing the way she whimpers his name, her hands grasping the lapels of his coat and pulling him closer just as he moves his lips back up to hers for endless seconds of hot, heady kisses.

A car honks in the distance, and they part on a gasp, laughing breathlessly into each other. Robin keeps her close, his lips bestowing tiny pecks along her temples, cheeks, nose, then settling on the corner of her mouth for a few seconds before he pulls back to look at her.

“When can I see you again?” he asks her, his hand moving up to gently grasp her wrist when she places her own hand on his chest, his thumb rubbing over the soft skin.

Regina takes her time answering, leaning in and sharing another slow, deep kiss with him, parting their mouths on a wet little smack before she licks her lower lip and smirks. And there’s some kind of secret amusement in her eyes as she answers, “Tomorrow morning at 8: _15_ on the dot, if I were to guess.”

He exhales at that, his hands wrapping tighter around her waist as he squeezes her to him.

“You know what I mean,” he says, but clarifies anyway. “When can I take you out again?”

“Depends on what flowers you get me tomorrow,” she teases, and he chuckles in reply, leaning in for one last peck before she finally extricates herself from him and unlocks her door.

He catches her for one more kiss before she walks inside, his lips attaching themselves to hers as if by instinct now. It’s not just the physical attraction that makes it amazing, there’s something else there, some kind of... intensity that he can’t quite place. A rush of feeling he hasn’t had for anyone before, and it’s too early to talk about destiny and meant-to-bes, but the notions float through his mind regardless, especially when she hums into the kiss, when she sighs and kisses back harder, when she lets him pull her close once again and extend their exchange simply because he needs to taste her again.

When they part at last, he dots a kiss to the tip of her nose, another to her mouth, a final one to her hand as he lifts it to his lips, then lets it go as he walks backwards away from her, keeping his eyes on her as long as possible and making a mental note to research flower meanings as soon as he gets home.

And while he has no idea what awaits them, as he drives back with the scent of her perfume still lingering in the car, and the memories of their evening playing on a delightful loop in his head, Robin decides he is quite ready for a new adventure.

 


End file.
